


Damaged

by ThatOneWriter15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, POV Third Person, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22776982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatOneWriter15/pseuds/ThatOneWriter15
Summary: She takes care of Sam as he suffers from the aftereffects of the Trials.
Relationships: Sam Winchester/Original Female Character(s), Sam Winchester/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 59





	Damaged

Expelling a gargantuan yawn, she enters the Bunker’s library.

She’s endured many nearly-sleepless nights in a row. All the time and energy she can muster goes toward gleaning knowledge on the Trials. And now, Kevin’s in the wind, which requires even more (wo)manpower. She’s lucky to catch her traditional four hours of shuteye.

Today, she allowed herself to doze off for only 90 minutes. The second Trial hit Sam pretty damn hard, and, for the sake of his health and her sanity, he needs to complete all three of them ASAP. Unfortunately, a lot of questions remain, and none of the answers to them are good. Hell, Sam’s condition is _already_ beyond Castiel’s healing powers. 

But, thankfully, she’s not working the case alone. 

Dean’s seated at a table, coffee in-hand. He skims a page in one of the dozen books within reach.

“Mornin’.” She grips the top of the wooden chair directly across from him.

“Hey.” He flashes her a tight smile before returning to the lore. 

She sits, and notices he’s wearing the same black-and-gray flannel he donned last night. His five-o’clock shadow has become a 10 A.M. shadow. “You haven’t slept.”

Dean slurps from the steaming mug, and smacks his plump lips. “Nope.”

She inhales, ready to urge him to lie down, but he reads her mind. 

“I _can’t_ ,” he insists. The pleading in his red-rimmed eyes shatters her heart--and her will to argue.

She nods. “All right.” Really, saying anything more would be hypocritical.

Dean sighs and rubs at his slight beard. In the silence of the room, she can _hear_ the scraping of his palm over the bristles.

“Where’s Sam?”

“Still sawing logs.” There’s a chuckle in his words, but it’s hollow.

“I’m gonna go check on him.” She squeezes Dean’s hand, and ventures to the corridor of bedrooms.

***

Sam’s door is wide-open. No lights are on. She peeks in, attempting stealth.

The slumbering giant faces away from her. His bed is in absolute disarray. The entire sheet twists around one of his calves. Near his hips, the lone pillow teeters over the edge of the mattress. His body is sprawled out, limbs resting at seemingly-uncomfortable angles. 

Suddenly, Sam jerks awake as if ice-water were poured on him. The exertion of the urgent movement clearly drains him, and he collapses against the headboard.

The muffled sound of her name cuts through the pounding of blood in her ears. 

“Hi,” she exhales, cautiously wandering over to his desk. She clicks on the lamp adjacent to his laptop. “Is that too bright?”

“S’okay,” Sam slurs.

When she observes him in the better lighting, the gasp that escapes is involuntary.

He’s not simply pale, he’s nearly _gray_. His hair appears to have exploded. The charcoal long-sleeve shirt he’s wearing is soaked in sweat--the scent of which hangs heavily in the air.

“Sam…” For a moment, she’s genuinely concerned she may be sick.

He fumbles with the tangled sheet as she gingerly sits beside him.

“Here, let me.” 

He leans back, panting, while she frees him from the fabric’s clutch. 

“Thank you,” Sam murmurs.

“Of course.” Combating his wild bangs, she lays a hand on his forehead. Heat permeates her skin immediately. “Sweetie, you are _burning up_.”

“For _now_.” Sam scoffs gently. “Be freezing in a minute.”

“I’ll grab you a blanket.” Something occurs to her. “And breakfast. Maybe toast?”

“No.” Sam shakes his head and then groans. “It’ll just come back up.”

“Be right back,” she squeaks, exiting quickly.

Hoping she won’t cross paths with Dean, she allows emotion to wash over her on the walk to the kitchen. 

***

Carrying one of Sam’s post-jog sports drinks, two pillows from her bed, and the plushest throw she owns, she returns to the hurting hero. 

She drops the bed dressings on his desk chair before reclaiming her spot next to him.

With a quick twist, she opens the beverage. “You at least need to stay hydrated.”

Sam reaches for the bottle with both hands, and she holds it steady until she’s certain he has a grip on it. He’s shaking like a leaf, but successfully brings it to his lips and gulps greedily. The tiniest trail of fruit-punch-flavored liquid dribbles down his chin. Its pigment and consistency is too reminiscent of blood.

As he inhales deeply, she caps the drink and slides it onto his nightstand. 

“Hang on.” Digging into the bottom drawer of Sam’s dresser, she steals a washcloth, and wets it at the sink.

Wiping the fruit punch from his stubble is her first mission. She then folds the cloth to expose a clean surface, and lightly presses it onto one of his cheeks. As soon as the cool compress kisses his skin, a small, grateful moan releases from the depths of his chest. Tears constrict her throat. 

After a few rounds of tending to the sides of his face, his forehead, and his neck, she drapes the rag over the faucet.

While his sickly coloring lingers, he appears to have stopped sweating.

She gestures to his torso. “Do you want a fresh shirt?”

“Please,” Sam breathes.

Back at his dresser, she locates a navy, long-sleeved top. Her feet slow as she approaches him. She’s almost… nervous? Which is ridiculous. He’s incredibly ill, and here she is, heart rate accelerating at the idea of him being half-naked in front of her.

“Should I…?” she starts, clueless as to where to finish. 

“I got it,” Sam assures her, accepting the change of clothes. He sits up straight and winces.

When his fingertips breach the hem of his soiled shirt, her eyes dart to the plain, boring floor. _Chicken._

Sam’s breathing is labored, interspersed with curses of anguish. She detects the _whoosh_ of his dirty top as he tosses it at--and misses--the heater. Seconds later, bedsprings protest against the dead weight of him, and she assumes it’s safe to look.

New v-neck on, Sam blindly gropes for the pillow, and shoves it behind his head. He covers his face with his hand, and she waits for him to compose himself. 

His arm dropping to his side, he sniffles. “Th-hanks aga-ain.” Instantly, his entire body begins to quiver. 

“Sam?” she inquires desperately. 

“T-ol-old you I’d be c-c-ol-old.” His chuckle morphs into a groan.

She drapes the wrinkled sheet over him, and rushes to obtain the throw. The thick, plaid fleece becomes an additional layer. 

Why she expects two blankets to be some sort of cure-all, she’s not sure. Disappointment and worry spark as she watches him. Eyes screwed shut, he trembles relentlessly. A small whimper rises from his throat. 

“It’s not working...” she whispers, stunned and helpless. 

Finally, a possible solution falls at her feet.

Body heat.

“Could--” she attempts. Sam’s ‘lids open to observe her momentarily before clamping closed again. “May I lie with you?” Realizing it’s a loaded request with no offered explanation, she scrambles to clarify. “I mean, I think you’d be warmer if--” 

“Yes,” Sam huffs. 

After finding the strength to unfreeze, she picks up her pillows. Placing them at the vacant side of the headboard, she’s close enough to hear Sam’s teeth chattering. Quickly, she crawls onto the mattress and props herself up slightly. “Come here.” 

Sam grunts as he slides toward her, and she guides his head to rest on her chest. He’s still cocooned in covers, but he nestles against her like they’re puzzle pieces. She wraps her left arm around the expanse of his back, her fingertips barely reaching his distant shoulder. 

Nose digging into her collarbone, Sam confesses, “I don’t kno-ow h-how mu-uch mo-ore of thi-s I can ta-ke.” 

With her right hand, she sweeps his bangs aside and leans down to kiss his fevered forehead. “I know, sweetie.” She tilts her chin upward, preventing her tears from plummeting. 

_He_ sobs quietly, his bottom lip catching on her t-shirt. She turns into him, fully hugging him while his body racks with emotion, illness, and defeat. 

Eventually, his shaking slows to the occasional twitch, and sleep claims him as much as her loving arms. 

**Author's Note:**

> A special thanks to Jo for the fruit punch suggestion.


End file.
